


The Tragedy of the Moulin Rouge

by CluelessBelarus



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Moulin Rouge! Fusion, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-24
Updated: 2014-02-24
Packaged: 2018-01-13 14:38:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1230151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CluelessBelarus/pseuds/CluelessBelarus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eren Jaeger is a young writer studying abroad at Sorbonne University in Paris, France. Through a series of strange situations and confusing mix-ups, he meets Levi, a beautiful male escort, and falls in love. However, he must compete with the wealthy and influential Erwin Smith. Will Levi give up the temptations of fame and fortune for endless love? </p>
<p>Basically a Moulin Rouge! au in a modern setting. The summary is shitty, but hopefully the actual work isn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Tragedy of the Moulin Rouge

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there. So this is my first time writing a fanfiction for this pairing. I absolutely love Ereri and I couldn't help but imagine this au after seeing the Moulin Rouge! film. I don't have a beta and I hate going back to edit stuff, so there might be some mistakes here and there >.

Chapter 1

_The greatest thing you’ll ever learn is to love and be loved in return._

It was one of the most painful and beautiful lessons I had learned in my 25 years of life. Love was what many romantic novelists had described: absolutely wonderful and consuming. When in love, you felt infinite, as if nothing else existed besides the person in your arms. It was hushed whispers and beating hearts, longing glances and warm smiles. I had read and dreamt about this sensation my entire life; it had inspired me to pursue love and beauty in the form of writing. But love was a double-edged sword. It was like the dramatic masks symbolizing theater; one spectacularly joyous; the other devastatingly sad. Love was accompanied by fear, jealousy, and pain. But most of all, love brought sorrow in its arms, or at least it had for me.

*4 years ago*

When I first arrived in Paris, I was a naïve and hopeful literature major, hoping to hone my writing skills at Sorbonne University during my study-abroad program. I was only a year, but that was fine with me because for one year, I would get to be Hemingway at a Parisian café, embracing the joie de vivre while letting the people around me inspire my works. I loved Ernest Hemingway with a passion, and his book A Moveable Feast had inspired me to come to Paris in the first place. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t speak French. They all spoke English here anyways, right?

Now you see what I meant when I said I was naïve. Oh yes, many of them could speak English and I overheard them too. That didn’t mean they would be willing to talk to me. I wasn’t in small town America anymore, where it was important to be hospitable and happy. In France, especially in this huge city, no one gave two shits about helping you. They simply said,

“Oh, eh non non, je ne parle pas anglais, sorry.”

This was my predicament. Every time I tried to asked for directions, all I got in return was a flurry of French. I had tried to pick up a few phrases, but I butchered them so bad that the people I asked looked disgusted. I had concluded that all French people were pricks. How Hemingway had put up with it all, I did not know. Maybe things had been different in the 1920s.

It was my first day and my goal was to get to Montmartre. All though I could stay in the dorms at Sorbonne, I had decided against it. I wanted to immerse myself in French culture, not become trapped in typical college dorms. After seeing the film Moulin Rouge!, I decided that Montmartre was the place to be.

Finally, after many hours of asking for directions, trying to make sense of the map, and lugging my luggage around, I was able to get to Montmartre and find my apartment building. The price for the shabby studio apartment was unbelievable high, but I did have a spectacular view of Sacre Coeur, so it was worth dealing with the scent of mold and the peeling wallpaper.

I still remember every detail of that apartment. My thought upon seeing the inside was that at least it was a little bit better than the living quarters of George Duroy in Bel Ami. There was a tiny bathroom that barely had room for a cracked and grimy bathtub, a moldy sink, and a toilet. The small bed was tucked into the corner. The mattress was rock hard and the springs were rusty and the pillow had clumps. At least it had a functional kitchen, no matter how miniscule. There was a very old refrigerator, a sink, a seemingly ancient stove, a couple cupboards, and a small table at which I could dine. There was also a torn and dusty couch with a small heater next to it. Of course they didn’t have a proper heating and air conditioning system. Looks like I would need to buy a fan for the warmer days. As dingy as the place was, the view and tiny balcony made up for it. The little apartment had a certain charm to it. I could really call myself a poor writer at this point.

After spending a couple hours arranging my things, a loud growl from my stomach alerted me that I needed sustenance, and since I was in Paris, that meant a delicious array of fruit, cheese, bread, and some wine. The wine would have to be cheap though since I didn’t have much money on me at the moment. I reminded myself that I needed to wire over some more to my bank account from America. Luckily, I found a small grocery store near my new home. I picked up the things I needed, and attempted to speak shitty French to the cashier, who merely stared at me coldly. As I was walking out, I felt someone crash into me with surprising force, as if a bull had rammed me. We both emitted forms of groans and went crashing to the ground.

"Merde! Pourquoi vous ne regardez pas où vous marchez?!"

The other man shot me an icy glare, his blue eyes burning with anger. I gave a small squeak of “Pardon!” and rushed to gather my things. I jumped up and offered him my hand. With a sniff of disgust he took it and I heaved him up. He was surprisingly heavy, for he was extremely short. The man couldn’t have been more than a couple inches over 5 feet, and he was not fat either. Rather, he was quite lean and he moved with stunning grace. After straightening out his grey coat, he fixed me with a firm stare and raised a thin black eyebrow expectantly. His belongings were still on the ground. I dropped down immediately to pick them up and handed them to him. Now most people would have found his actions to be rather rude, but he had such a commanding, regal air about him that I felt that if I did not pick up his things then I was mere trash. Under that domineering gaze, I was already a loyal dog.

Our hands brushed briefly at the exchange and a shiver went down my spine as heat rose to my cheeks. His skin was rather cold and pale, almost translucent and I could see the blue veins. His fingers were long –“spidery” some may say- but to me they held an air of elegance. Never before had hands fascinated me in such a way.

“You…you have b-beautiful hands...sir,” I sputtered stupidly. Hopefully he didn’t understand English. But then a strange look crossed his eyes, one of faint amusement, but then it was gone.

“Merci,” he replied tersely. He gave me another long, piercing stare, though not as cold as before, and swept past me quickly, disappearing into the crowd. Looks like he understood English after all. I exhaled, not realizing I had been holding my breath. Although the man was gone, neither his gaze nor his hands left my thoughts. My cheeks still burned at the memory of our brief contact. As I returned to my apartment, he still remained on my mind. Who was this man? Why was he able to control and captivate me like this even in his absence? Similar questions ate away at me as I mused by my laptop. I probably would have spent several hours mulling over the situation had a loud bang from my balcony startled me.

I rushed over and saw that someone had indeed fallen onto my balcony. The young man stood up, shook himself up, and smiled at me apologetically. He was short, even shorter than the other man, had buzzed hair, and a mischievous glint in his eyes. He shook my hand and went off in a flurry of French. “Oh, um, uh…je ne parle pas francais,” was my weak response. His eyes widened and he laughed boisterously.

“Ah yes desole! Zat is okay, I speak anglais un peu! Je m’appelle Connie. I uh, live at ze apartment above you. We are making a film you see, and I fell from ze fenetre, uh, ze window.” He looked around my apartment and grinned when he noticed my laptop and books. “Tu es un etudiant! Can you write? You have many books, non ? You go to Sorbonne as well I see.” I nodded in response and replied,

“Yes, I can write. I’m an English major. I want to be a writer.” Connie grabbed my hand and gave me a determined look.

“Please help me,” he pleaded, “Our group is making a film pour un festival! Our script writer, he left town! Just left! Mon Dieu, he did not say au revoir either. We have need of a writer maintenant. We can all read anglais too, so do not worry. S’il vous plait, we are desperate!”

And that is how I became the new script writer for a band of film majors at Sorbonne. Their film was…weird. That is literally the only way it can be described. It was supposedly about a young poet who writes a poem that accidentally opens a dimensional rift. He falls through the rift and enters a strange alien kingdom and falls in love with the alien princess despite her father’s disapproval. His main conflict is whether or not he wants to stay in the world with his love or return home. According to Connie, the idea was created after a round of absinthe. Shocker.

They were all a very kind group of people though. There English was limited, but we understood each other all the same. After just a week of working with them, I knew them all like family. Connie was the director of the production, and the film was a project for his class. Reiner and Bertholdt were Connie’s roommates, two German transfer students who seemed to be inseparable. Bertholdt was enormously tall, but soft spoken; he was playing the lead. Reiner had opted to be the main cameraman. Marco, an Italian transfer student, was the costume designer as well as other cameraman. Jean was Marco’s French boyfriend. The guy was a horse-faced asshole, but he was a fantastic actor and was skilled with technology. He was in charge of editing the film and was playing several roles within it. Sasha, Connie’s girlfriend, was playing the alien princess. Other cast members included Mina Carolina, Krista –an actual goddess-, Krista’s girlfriend Ymir, and a stoic girl named Annie.

One evening while I was working on the script, Connie clapped me on the shoulder and said,

“Mon Dieu mon ami, you have been working hard! Allons-y, let’s all go for a break. Z’ere iz zis perfect nightclub a few blocks away called Le Chat Noir. It has ze best shows for all ze sexes. You will like it. Sasha, Jean, Marco, et moi are going. We shall introduce you as our famed screenwriter!”

I had heard of the club before. It was a dark, mysterious place near the Moulin Rouge. I was a bit apprehensive at first. I had never been particularly into clubbing or partying, so the nightclub wasn’t my choice hangout. But Connie was currently giving me the puppy-dog eyes, so I finally just thought, ’fuck it’ and agreed.

It was both the best and worst decision I have ever made in my life.


End file.
